


Knitted Cardigans and Knitted Mittens

by Aethelar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Family, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Smaug is a dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's there to say? Nori's always busy, Dori <i>still</i> thinks Ori wants to be a lawyer, and Ori himself is a bit preoccupied being head over heels for a guy in a coffee shop, of all things.</p><p>In Ori's defense, the guy's ridiculously good looking. And smiles a lot. And laughs. In fact, Ori never really stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibijau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibijau/gifts).



> _Aidan Turner is the "hot one" I suppose. If you like that kind of thing. But if you like knitted cardigans and knitted mittens, then I'm your fella._ \-- Behind the scenes with Graham and Adam.
> 
> Right, fluff is happening. Please box me around the ears if I stray too far from the fluff, because I'm determined to write something happy.

Ori leans back against the cool stone and tugs his scarf closer around his shoulders. He resists the urge to check his watch again – he knows what it will say. Twelve minutes past one, just like it said when he checked it ten seconds ago.

It’s fine. Nori’s timekeeping is always… erratic. A bit approximate. He glances up at the imposing church next to Nori’s office and tries to count the names listed in the memorial plaque. It distracts him, if nothing else.

He gets to twenty eight, after a couple of false starts when he lost his place, before someone interrupts him.

“Hello? Are you lost?”

It’s a woman, around Dori’s age (he thinks, he’s never been good with ages). Her eyes are precisely outlined with mascara and eyeliner, a dark brown rather than the more striking black – it complements the subtle shade of her lipstick and the soft curls of her hair, drawn back into a loose bun. Ori stares for a moment, blush rising in his cheeks as he struggles to drag his mind away from cataloguing her makeup and focus instead on her words.

“No,” he squeaks, and calls himself ten thousand times a fool when she raises an eyebrow (she’s filled it in with pencil, a simple but practiced shape that suggests she wears the same look every day for work and knows exactly how to do it on the train and really, this isn’t important but Ori can’t help but notice). “I’m just – my brother, he works here, I’m waiting for my brother for lunch – I texted him, he’ll be here soon. For lunch.” It’s a babbled mess, but he hopes it’s enough to satisfy her.

“Ah, that’s good.” She takes a step back and Ori relaxes minutely, his fingers stopping their incessant picking at the wool of his mittens. “I thought you might be one of the new interns. There’s always one who gets locked out in the first week.” She waves at him (chipped nail polish on her index fingers, but she’s painted over it well enough, it’s barely noticeable) and keys in the code to the office with the other hand. Ori manages to smile at her before she slips inside, but it drops as soon as she’s gone.

“Come on Nori, where are you?” he asks into his scarf as he fumbles in his sleeve for his phone. _Seventeen minutes past one_ , the lock screen reads. He debates with himself for a moment, but Nori is over a quarter of an hour late and hasn’t responded to any of the three texts Ori has sent him already. He opens his contact list and hits Nori’s name. The phone rings seven times – he counts – before his brother picks up.

_“Ori? Listen kiddo, this isn’t a good time – ”_

His heart sinks. “We had lunch,” he interrupts. “At one. You said you’d meet me by your work.”

_“I did? Oh, Christ. Look, tomorrow, ok? Tomorrow for sure. Shit, you need food, right? Go round to mine, someone should be there to let you in. There’s half a pizza in the fridge – it’s only a few days old, or I think there’s some of those packet soup things Dori sent in one of the cupboards. You ok with that, kid?”_

Ori hesitates. He’s not ok, not really – Nori lives with two housemates and a dog, and his house is small and crowded and noisy because at least one of the housemates doesn’t work at the moment. Which is fine, except that it’s not because Ori doesn’t want to intrude on someone he barely knows, and the dog has never seemed to like him much.

“Yeah, I’m ok.”

_“Great, and I mean it. Tomorrow, one o’clock sharp – I’ll be there, kid. And I’ll get the extra train fare, just let me know how much, ok? I’ve gotta go, but tomorrow, I swear.”_

The phone beeps at him as the call ends. He stares at the screen, scrolling jerkily through his short contacts list as he thinks. His train isn’t till ten past three – he has two hours to kill. Less, if he takes off the time to walk to the station. Going to Nori’s for leftover pizza and year old cuppa soup isn’t an option that greatly appeals, which leaves him with the choice of finding a café to hole up in or dipping further into his student loan for an earlier train ticket back to Dori’s.

So, a café then. Or a sandwich and a paper cup of tea on the station bench, that would work as well. He slides his phone back into his sleeve and reclaims the end of his scarf that the breeze has worked loose. Irrationally, he hopes that no one in the shiny offices across the road has been watching his futile, twenty minute wait in the cold. He isn’t sure what difference it would make, but he hopes all the same.

-

The rain comes suddenly, the bleak grey of the overcast day replaced with an icy deluge that soaks through Ori’s two layers of hand knitted jumpers and leaves him shivering and sodden. He has little choice but to seek shelter inside the closest café, hovering just inside the doorway to wait it out – a downpour this heavy, it surely wouldn’t last long.

Steam rises from his jumper in the warmth of the café, threatening to make his nose run and fogging up his glasses. He pulls them off to wipe the lenses clean with his sleeve.

“Hey!” A blurry, yellow clad shape says cheerfully. “What can I get – Jesus, you’re soaked! Do you need a towel?”

Ori jumps, taken by surprise. “I’m fine,” he assures the man, clumsily pushing his water smeared glasses back onto his nose. Realising how abrupt his words sound, he hurries to add a belated “Thank you, though.”

“Well, at least sit somewhere warm, won’t you?” The man tugs at Ori’s sleeve, pulling him further inside the café. It’s a gentle touch, barely more than a slight movement of the heavy wool, but it flusters Ori enough that he finds himself following without complaint. The door retreats further behind him as the man leads him between the rough wooden tables and past the coffee stained counter to a pair of low, squishy chairs.

“Here,” he says, sweeping out his hand expansively. “Best seats in the house – the ovens are just on the other side of that wall, it gets _toasty_ here, believe me. Now, what can I get you?”

Ori blinks, thrown off kilter by the fast Irish brogue and still not fully able to see. The water smears on his glasses have turned his vision into something that a photoshop novice with the lens flare tool would be proud of. “Tea, please,” he says, falling back onto known ground. “Just a cup of tea.”

“Cup of tea,” the man repeats, ever cheerful in a way that Ori would find exhausting after too long, and bustles off to the counter to prepare it.

Ori sighs in relief when he’s gone. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ people – he does, honestly he does – but he finds them a bit much sometimes, especially when he’s not prepared. And now he’s been bounced into buying tea which means he’ll have to stay in the café until it’s cool enough to drink, but that’s ok. He can still get to the station and eat a cardboard packaged sandwich on one of the platform benches while he waits for his train. He’s ok.

He’s much calmer as he perches on the edge of one of the plush chairs, his wet satchel held awkwardly across his knee. He slides his phone out of his sleeve and rests it on his lap where he can easily see the screen if it lights up with an incoming text, and resumes the careful cleaning of his glasses.

“Milk and sugar?” the man asks, breaking into his thoughts again. Ori glances up, glasses now set to rights and his vision clear, and his words die in his throat.

The man is tall and slender, his lanky frame speaking of a body that had not yet finished filling out. His tee shirt is, indeed, yellow, a bright and unforgiving yellow that shouldn’t look good on anyone but looks brilliant on him. His skin is tanned and his hands are large and rough, his strong jaw lined with stubble and his brown eyes warm and friendly. His shoulder length hair is pulled haphazardly back into a half pony tail, with a handful of short strands escaping at the front in a straggly attempt at a fringe. It somehow manages to look purposefully rumpled instead of a shaggy mess, but Ori can recognise fourteen kinds of hair styling products and the man, as far as he can tell, has hardly even used a brush. He is, in short, everything that Ori – skinny, short Ori with his wispy hair and a thick spread of freckles across his nose – everything that Ori is not, and bloody gorgeous to boot.

He is also waiting patiently for an answer as he puts together a small tray, china clinking as he places the large cup on its saucer and sets the lid on the painted teapot.

“Lots, please,” Ori blurts, then bites his cheek and flushes. Lots? Who said _lots_ when asked if they wanted milk and sugar?

If the man notices his awkward wording, he doesn’t show it. He nods at Ori, humming along to the radio as he places two small jugs of milk on the tray along with a bowl piled high with sugar cubes.

“Drying out a bit?” he asks as he brings the lot over. He frowns as he notices Ori perched on the edge of the chair, and for a moment Ori’s heart stutters nervously. “Don’t worry about getting the seat wet, they’re made to be sat on,” he chides, and pushes at Ori’s legs with his knee. Ori flinches away – he doesn’t like to be touched, dammit – but the movement makes him slide back into the chair, and the man smiles in satisfaction.

“You sure I can’t get you anything else?” His expression is open and hopeful and Ori finds himself asking, in an embarrassingly hesitant way, for a cheese sandwich.

It’s the man’s fault. Ori’s not used to being talked to so much by someone outside of his very selective (or pathetically small) circle of friends and family, and never by someone so outright attractive as the man is.

It’s a good cheese sandwich, though. And the man even perched a biscuit on his saucer to have with his tea – a proper biscuit, thick and studded with chocolate chips, not the thin, individually wrapped ones that cafés usually gave out.

It’s a better lunch than he would have had on the cold metal benches of the platform, that’s for sure.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Shit, lunch. Ori, I’m sorry - it’s just Christmas, you know? Everybody’s taking time off, and we’re stupidly short staffed at the best of times.”_

Ori doesn’t sigh, but only because he knows his brother would hear it. “It’s fine,” he says into the phone, already pushing off from the wall and turning to walk aimlessly down the pavement. “I know you’re busy, Nori. You don’t have to explain.” At least it’s warmer today, crisp and clear with the sun shining down from a cloudless blue sky. Not that he minds the cold – he prefers it to the heat, because you can always add another oversized jumper but there’s a limit to what he’s comfortable taking off. Still, it’s nice that his shoulders aren’t aching from being hunched against the wind for twenty minutes while he waits for his brother to remember him.

_“Fuck’s sake, kid. Make me feel worse, why don’t you? Weekend – I’ll be free at the weekend, definitely. Come stay Saturday, we’ll make a night of it, ok? I’ll make it up to you then.”_

He winced; Dori would pitch a fit about him being gone again, particularly over the weekend. His boyfriend was visiting, Balin the city lawyer that Ori had heard so much about but never yet met in person. Ori didn’t have a problem with that in principle – he was happy that his brother was happy, particularly after so many years of ignoring his social life to focus on raising Nori and Ori after their mother died – but Dori had decided that Ori was going to be a lawyer, and that the mysterious Balin would be able to give him all the advice he needed to get there.

It isn’t a conversation Ori is looking forward to. And, as much as he hates to disappoint his oldest brother, Nori isn’t coming home for Christmas this year so staying with him for the weekend is actually kind of important.

“Saturday,” he says firmly into the phone, a thrill running through him at the decision. He’s twenty one, he can spend a weekend with Nori without having to ask for Dori’s permission.

_“It’ll be great, kid,”_ Nori promises and hangs up before Ori can ask for more details. He sends a text instead – _what time? anything u want me to bring?_ – and slides his phone back into his sleeve without waiting for an answer. He’ll get one in the next couple of days or so; Nori is rarely prompt with such things.

A familiar humming makes him look up, and he almost stumbles when he realises where he is. His feet have carried him towards the station without much thought on his part, and he’s now just across the road from the café he’d hidden in yesterday to escape from the rain.

_Ered Luin,_ the sign above the café reads in thick gold letters. It doesn’t mean anything as far as Ori knows; perhaps it’s the owner’s name? Dori had considered something similar for his own tea house back when he’d first bought it from the old owners. He’d decided against changing the name, in the end, but Ori remembered a fun period when he and Nori had suggested ever more ridiculous tea based puns until Dori had thrown his hands up in despair.

The yellow shirted man from yesterday is there again, spraying something from a brightly coloured bottle onto the weathered tables and straightening up the chairs. He isn’t wearing yellow today though; instead, he’s got a red checked button down on and – of all things – a pair of slightly ragged fingerless gloves.

_I could knit those,_ Ori thinks, already mentally calculating the pattern. He has some dark green Aran wool left over from Nori’s Christmas present, there should be enough for the gloves. Then again, the man’s hands are a fair bit bigger than Ori’s; he might be cutting it a bit fine.

Ori shakes his head, chiding himself for his thoughts. “Get a grip,” he mutters, pulling his scarf self-consciously around his shoulders. Planning how he would replicate a cardigan in a shop window is one thing, but letting his mind runaway like this is ridiculous. He should go, get to the station. He’s learnt from yesterday – his ticket is open return (it was the cheapest option, but that’s by the by), he can get the next train home. It’s only a couple of hours on the journey, he can wait that long to have lunch. There’s some leftover curry that Dori said needed eating. Besides, he’s a dirt poor student, as everyone is so keen to remind him – he doesn’t have the money to throw around on cheese sandwiches and cups of tea with complimentary chocolate biscuits.

“Hi,” he says, finding himself standing outside Ered Luin unsure if he should raise a hand and wave or not. The wide smile that breaks out on the man’s face when he looks up does strange things to Ori’s stomach, and the leftover curry will have to wait for another time. _So much for getting a grip._

“You’re looking dryer,” the man says in greeting, and Ori has a minor moment of panic attack that the man remembered him from the day before.

“No rain.” Well, at least he kept the squeaking to a minimum, even if his actual words were stupidly obvious. From the heat in his cheeks, he’s pretty sure his face in on fire, but the man just laughs as though he’d made a joke instead of tripping over his tongue like an idiot.

“That’ll do it.” He throws his cloth over one shoulder and begins leading Ori inside. “What can I get you then?”

Ori ducks inside after him, holding his satchel close so it doesn’t knock into anything. The café’s busier than it was yesterday, the wood panelled interior filled with a comforting murmur of clinking cups and low voices. In the corner, there’s a man hunched over a sleek laptop, frowning at the screen with a cup of cooling coffee by his hand. A folded pram leans against the wall next to a young family, their son attempting to grab a spoonful baby food from his mother and throw it across the room. The table closest to the door is occupied by a pair of teenage girls, a slice of chocolate cake with two spoons on the table between them and a pair of frothy, marshmallow studded concoctions to the side.

It’s a stupid thing, but the realisation that Ered Luin is an actual café with actual customers hits him hard. He’d forgotten yesterday, when the man had invited him in out of the rain and made him a cup of tea and a sandwich – he’d let his mind run away with itself, imagining a connection that isn’t there. Of course it isn’t there; he’s a guy in a coffee shop, not the star of some sappy rom com with a picture perfect heroine and a minimum of two Taylor Swift songs on the soundtrack.

“Just tea, please,” he says distantly. The girl facing him, the one making lovesick eyes at her partner over the shared chocolate cake – she’s wearing too much lip gloss, and her mascara is too heavy and dark for the clothes she’s wearing. The foundation she’s got is good quality, but the tone doesn’t match her skin and there’s a noticeable colour change at the top of her neck where she’s not blended the edges properly. Ori doesn’t usually allow himself to analyse people like this – it feels wrong somehow, looking at the girl and working out that she’s probably on a first date and trying too hard to be pretty with makeup she doesn’t usually wear – but right at the moment, his other option is making lovesick eyes of his own and calling himself as many variants of a bloody idiot as he knows.

The overstuffed chairs at the back are unoccupied, tucked away between the counter and the kitchens where not many people think to look. Ori sinks in gratefully, remembering to actually sit _in_ the chair this time and not just perch on the edge.

“Lots of milk, lots of sugar, yeah?” the man asks, already loading up the tray with a blue spotted sugar bowl and two milk jugs (milk thimbles, more like – Ori was almost tempted to ask for a third) without waiting for an answer.

“Yeah,” Ori agrees anyway. The man flashes him a smile that should be illegal as he brings the tea over.

“Anything else? Cheese sandwich, other sandwich? There’s a quiche Lorraine on the go, if you’d prefer some of that.”

Ori’s heart quickens. The man is standing too close, leaning forwards to reach the low table (very low, who thought it was a good idea to make it that low?) The position makes his shirt gape open a bit at the collar – not by much, just enough to reveal a shadowy collar bone and the slightest curl of dark chest hair, but enough to set Ori’s face aflame. The man looks up at him questioningly, waiting for an answer and, well, his eyes really are very dark and if Ori had a mascara brush he’d – _try to choke himself on it good fucking grief man get a grip!_

“I’m allergic to eggs!” He bites his tongue and desperately hopes that he doesn’t really sound as loud and panicked as he thinks he does.

The man wrinkles his nose, but mercifully ( _not_ unfortunately, _thank you_ brain) stands up, taking his overly sexy eyes and the undone top button of his shirt with him. “Geez, that sucks. What, all eggs? Even cake?”

“No, it’s just – um,” he scrambles for a way to describe the eggs he can’t eat, but his mouth runs on with the words before he can think of a better way of saying them, “just raw and loosely cooked eggs, I’m fine with ones that have been extensively heated like in cake. But I can’t eat actual eggs, or things like mayonnaise and, um. Quiche.” Extensively heated? Oh, someone put him out of his misery. He sounds like a NHS leaflet.

“So, no quiche then,” the man laughs. “But lucky that you can still have the… extensively heated eggs. Imagine not being able to eat cake!”

“Yeah,” Ori agrees quietly, settling down to his tea and his complimentary biscuit as the man heads back to the counter. His pulls his phone out and balances it on his lap, idly scrolling through old messages in an attempt to look occupied and disguise the covert glances he throws the man’s way. He’s humming along to the radio again, hips swaying slightly in a vague semblance of time with the music. It’s more like fidgeting, really, the way the man moves and taps his fingers against the counter and starts rearranging the mugs behind the shelves so that their handles are perfectly aligned. He all but bounces forwards when the two girls come up to the counter to pay, chattering away a mile a minute until they both laugh.

He’s bored, Ori realises. Bored, and talkative. He can’t decide if this is good or not – good, because maybe that’s an excuse to try and talk to the man? Although, Ori’s not good at talking. Listening, yes, he can listen like the best of them, but he always seems to end up saying something stupid or trailing off into an awkward silence when he’s left to talk. But on the other hand it’s not good, very much not good, because he’s reminded again that the man is just talking to Ori as a customer. There’s nothing special about him, no reason on earth for the man to ever be more than politely friendly with the strange kid in too much knitting who blurts out weirdly precise descriptions about his egg allergy.

He should go. Finish his tea and go, and put the man out of his mind – it’s no different to a crush on some celebrity, or a character in a film even. Nice to think about, stupid to pretend that anything could happen. He’ll keep the image of the man bent over the table, looking up at him through dark eyelashes with his shirt falling open – yes, _that_ image he’ll definitely keep for later. Um. Because it was a fairly memorable image, not for anything else. That would probably be some kind of invasion of privacy, or at the very least quite rude. Although, the man would never know… No, _no._ Bad thoughts, brain. Stop.

A muttered curse brings him back to the present. He looks up, eyes locking onto the man with almost disturbing speed. The front of the coffee machine has been swung open and the man is bent over it, glaring at it with his hands raised in a frustrated gesture. It’s such a familiar sight – Dori struggles eternally with technology of any kind, and frequently ends up in a huff with the antiquated machines in his tea shop – that Ori asks what’s wrong before his mind catches up to the fact that he’s not currently _in_ Dori’s tea shop.

“It’s _clicking_ again,” the man says in an aggravated tone, staring blankly at the exposed inner workings. He seems to catch himself, and throws a disarming smile Ori’s way. “But it’s fine, nothing’s wrong. Just normal coffee stuff, eh?”

Ori hesitates. He could just agree, leave it at that and subside back into quiet contemplation over his tea – but the man doesn’t seem to have a clue what he’s doing with the machine. “Could it be a blockage?” he ventures, fingers curling into his mittens nervously.

“A blockage?” the man asks, brow furrowing as it he considers the machine. “You think something got into it, coffee grounds or something?”

“Or minerals, they can build up in the pipes.” Ori swallows, his throat going dry as the man steps away from the machine and motions him forwards. He rises out of his seat like a man going to the gallows, barely remembering to catch his phone before it slides off his lap and crashes to the floor. The walk is short, barely a few paces, but each step feels like a mile. It’s still over too quickly. “The water, um, it’s quite hard here, isn’t it? That would leave deposits, I think.”

“Whatever it is, it’s been driving me mad,” the man admits. “If you can fix it, I’ll give you a coffee on the house.” He crowds close, leaning over his shoulder to watch with interest as Ori unscrews one of the narrow pipes inside the machine. The height difference is almost painfully obvious – Ori is a good head shorter, though at least some of that is due to him hunching his shoulders in an effort to hide his blush.

The inside of the pipe is caked with stained lime scale deposit, as he had thought. It leaves barely enough of the pipe free for the water to flow through, and it’s not hard to conclude that a section of lime scale somewhere in the machine has come loose and is rattling around, blocking the pipes and making the annoying clicking sound.

“That’s it?” the man asks, his breath ghosting over Ori’s ear. He suppresses a squeak and almost drops the pipe, turning and taking a step back so fast that his hip slams painfully against the counter, though layers of knitwear muffle the sound. Personal space, come on! Surely the man had heard of it?

“Y – yeah, just deposits,” he chokes out. “Not a problem, you can still use the machine for now. You just need to clean it some time to get rid of them. The deposits. With vinegar, that works. Um, vinegar in all the pipes. To dissolve the deposits. Um.”

Thankfully, the man is too excited about the solution to notice Ori’s pathetic stumbling, staring at the clogged pipe with wonder. “Brilliant,” he says, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Brilliant! You’ve got no idea how long that’s been bugging me. What’s your name?”

Ori blinks, the sudden question throwing him off track. “Ori,” he answers automatically, too distracted by the way the man’s eyes sparkle, genuinely sparkle when he grins.

“Well, Ori, you’re a genius. How do you like your coffee?”

“Coffee?” Ori repeats helplessly, having completely lost track of the conversation.

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “I promised you a coffee on the house if you fixed the machine, didn’t I?”

“Oh, it’s ok – I don’t drink coffee.” The man’s still standing a bit close, and with the counter behind him blocking him in Ori should be starting to hyperventilate by now. For some reason, he isn’t. Oh, sure; babbling and stuttering, blushing like an idiot, he’s doing all of those with gusto. But something about the man’s grin, his happy demeanour and his genuine appreciation for Ori’s help – Ori finds himself almost at ease, as strange as that is.

It makes him pause, gives him the sliver of confidence to raise his chin and ask, “Could I have a cheese sandwich?”

The man stares at him for a moment, just long enough for Ori to regret his words and shift uncomfortably, before shaking his head with a laugh. “On the house,” he says, and shoos Ori back to his squishy chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has [fanart](http://sketch-pencil.tumblr.com/post/83097417468/tagathsketch-inspired-by-this-lovely-fic-uwu) by the lovely [Tagath](http://thecutestscribeoferebor.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

Ori holds a second shirt against himself, staring at his reflection quizzically in the mirror. It’s one of his nicer button downs, bought on a whim and rarely worn. Small foxes chase smaller hares over the dark burgundy cotton, interspersed with tiny repeating motifs that he thinks are fleur-de-lis shapes but may just be uneven blobs. He chews his lip in hesitation; it’s a bolder pattern than he usually goes for, and he’s unsure if he should just stick with his one of his usual drab tee shirts.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Dori grouses, appearing at the door with a wrapped foil parcel in hand. Ori jumps and hurriedly stuffs the shirt in the holdall behind him. “You’re still not packed? You’re going to miss your train!”

“There’s still time,” Ori protests, shoving a pair of socks down the side of his bag and digging out his pyjamas from under the mess of covers on his bed. “I’ll just run, that’s all.”

“You won’t. It’s icy, you’ll slip.” Dori comes up beside him, carefully placing the foil parcel – sandwiches, from the shape of it – in one of the side pockets. He follows it up with a banana, complete with yellow plastic banana guard, and a rattling box that probably contains carrots, neatly peeled and sliced into batons. “I’ll give you a lift, save you breaking your neck on the pavement.”

“Dori! I’m not going to break my neck. And I don’t need a packed lunch – I’ll be at Nori’s by then, the journey’s not that long.”

Dori sniffs, his expression the same mix of irritation and poorly hidden pain as it was whenever Nori was mentioned. “Your brother thinks a bottle of beer is as good a lunch as any. Forgive me if I’d rather you had something more substantial to tide you over.”

“He’s your brother too,” Ori mumbles, but he keeps it under his breath. It’s an old argument; bringing it up now will do nothing but end up with both of them angry at each other. Louder, he says, “I’m almost done, be down in two minutes.”

“You’ve got your tooth brush? Contact lenses for tomorrow? Phone charger?”

He nods to each one, too used to Dori’s fussing to complain at the checklist. A pair of knitted slipper boots joins the bag of clothes on the bed and he slides a book on Anglo Saxon burial rites into his satchel. It’s dry reading at best, but he’s got an essay to write before the holidays are over and he may as well make use of the train journey to get some notes out of the way.

He’s pulling on his scarf when Dori presses the letters into his hands. There’s four of them, all addressed to Nori and most with a cheerful Christmas stamp in the corner. “Christmas cards, I should think,” Dori says off-handedly. “Heaven knows I’ve told people enough times that he doesn’t live here anymore, but – well. If he’d give them his new address, perhaps they’d be able to use it.”

None of the envelopes are written in Dori’s looping script, but Ori expects that. What he doesn’t expect is the twenty pound note tucked into the pile, and he almost asks if Dori left it there by accident. A glance at his brother convinces him otherwise; the silver haired man is studiously searching through the many coats on the rail for his car keys, but his face is set in stubborn lines that just _dare_ Ori to comment. Wisely, Ori tucks the cards and the note into his satchel and doesn’t take the dare.

“Right then,” Dori says, magically finding his keys in the next coat pocket he checks. “You’ve got your tickets? And rail card?”

“Got them both,” Ori assures him, pulling them out of his jeans pocket as proof. He resettles the holdall on his shoulder and follows Dori out the door, shivering slightly in the cold air.

Another car is pulling up the drive, an old red Mercedes. It’s got a few dents, but the paint has been painstakingly retouched and the car itself is impeccably clean.

Dori curses under his breath. “Half ten on the dot, of course he’s not late,” he mutters to himself. “Ori, get your stuff in the car. I swear, you’ve got the worst timing for this trip of yours.”

The first thing Ori notices about the man that steps out of the car is the fact that his hair is white. Not just greying with age or a pale platinum blond but _white_ , like Dori’s tablecloths fresh from a bleach run. The second thing Ori notices – because it’s a bit hard to miss – is that the man kisses Dori in greeting. His gaze sharpens as he looks over the man more intently, taking in the navy jacket, the finely knitted jumper (lambswool? Cashmere? It’s hard to tell from this distance) and the neatly pressed grey flannel trousers. City clothes.

This must be Balin, Dori’s lawyer boyfriend.

Dori pulls away, saying something too low for Ori to hear. Whatever it is, Balin laughs in response, a soft chuckle that makes Dori – fussy, perfectionist Dori, who’s spent Ori’s entire life chiding him for being so hesitant and telling him to look people in the eye and never back down from anything – blush, ducking his head like a school girl with a crush. Ori boggles at the sight. He’s still boggling when Dori pushes Balin towards the front door and hurries over back to Ori, not bothering to hide his pleased smile.

“He seems nice,” Ori says, struggling to process the facts. “He’ll be ok in the house without you?”

“And why shouldn’t he be?” Dori sniffs, reversing out the drive with perhaps more vigour than is strictly necessary. “He knows where everything is to make a pot of tea, that’s all anyone needs.”

“You let him make you _tea_?”

Dori shoots him a glare, derision thick enough to choke on. Ori does his best to keep breathing regardless. “Don’t be such a drama queen, Ori. Not everyone’s as incompetent at it as you are.”

Ori shakes his head disbelievingly. Dori is picky about tea. It’s one of the constants of his life; Dori only drinks tea that he makes himself, because nobody else can make it properly. It’s _law_.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Dori asks after a long pause, his voice hesitant and nervous. It sounds wrong coming from a man usually so sure of himself. “About Balin.”

“Mind?” Ori stares at his brother. Dori’s gripping the wheel until his knuckles are almost white, staring forwards at the road with intense concentration. His voice, when he speaks, is carefully light and understanding.

“I know it’s difficult, when it’s been just us for so long – and you have to know that you’ll always be my first priority, right Ori? But Balin, he’s been good for me. And I’m not going to make a big deal of you not meeting him today, I just…” Dori sighs, darting a glance at Ori before refocusing on the road. “I think you’d like him, I really do.”

Ori flounders, lost for words. He hadn’t – he didn’t – it never even _occurred_ to him that this was something Dori was worrying about. “Dori…” He swallows, hard. “I just wanted to see Nori, I swear. It was nothing to do with Balin – I didn’t realise it was such a big thing, I’m sorry.”

“Of course it’s a big thing!” They’ve reached the station, but Dori pulls up at the side of the road rather than carry on to the car park. Given the way he’s all but vibrating with agitation, that’s probably for the best. “Balin wants to be part of our family, but if you’ve never even said hello to him – _yes,_ it’s a bloody big deal!”

Dori swore. He _actually_ swore – not a particularly bad swear word, but _still_. Ori’s pretty sure his brain can’t handle this many surprises in one car journey. “I’m sorry,” he repeats lamely. “I’ll be there for the next lunch?”

He shifts uncomfortably under his brother’s assessing gaze, staring fixedly at his mittens. Finally, Dori sighs. “It’s dinner,” he says wearily. “Christmas Eve.” And, before Ori can ask, “He’s spending Christmas day with his brother, you don’t have to worry about that.”

Ori shuts his mouth. “I wasn’t worried,” he mutters, but secretly he’s relieved – he likes Balin on principle because he makes Dori so happy, but Christmas day itself is for childish traditions and happy memories. It would be weird enough not having Nori there, let alone sharing it with a man he’ll only have met the day before.

Dori nods briskly and the heavy atmosphere is broken. “Of course not. Now, train – and phone me when you get there, alright? Have you got enough change for the tea trolley?”

“Yes,” Ori answers to both, and with a final nod Dori pushes him out of the car.

-

The train journey is as long and dull as it ever is. There’s only so much discussion he can read about whether the presence of Anglo Saxon motifs on brooches and cloak pins implies an Anglo Saxon identity or not before he starts wanting to throw something out a window. Urgh, and he’s got to write three thousand words on this by mid-January – couldn’t he have chosen a slightly more interesting topic? He ends up eating the sandwiches Dori made just for something to alleviate the boredom and ignores the disapproving look from the lady next to him when he picks out the lettuce.

It’s damp when he finally gets off the train, the sky overcast and grey and the pavement wet from the earlier rain. Muddy slush gathers at the curb and in the shadow of the rubbish bins but thankfully there’s no ice and the walk to Nori’s is pleasant enough. He takes the back streets; the wider main roads throng with people, pushing through the crowds and frantically checking lists of who still needs a Christmas present. Even the narrow alleys are busy and so closely parked it’s a wonder anyone can actually get to their cars.

 _At Noris_ , he texts Dori when he reaches his brother’s house. His thumb hovers over the keypad. Should he mention Balin? Should he leave Balin out, but remind Dori that he and Nori have been telling him to live his own life for years now? Admittedly, Nori may have been slightly more aggressive in his telling than Ori – and his reasons may have been slightly different – but the truth remains. Dori was twenty six when he abandoned a promising career in academia and moved out of the flat he shared with his boyfriend of the time to raise Ori and Nori. Since then, he’s never dated – the boyfriend hadn’t lasted – never tried to finish his postgrad or start a different one, never taken a job that he wanted over one that fit around caring for his brothers. If anyone deserves a relationship to go well, Ori thinks, it’s Dori.

He bites his lip. _Thank u for the sandwich_ , he writes, and hits send before he can feel guilty about not saying more.

“Right,” he says, squaring his shoulder and facing the door. On the other side are two people he doesn’t know very well – one of whom he’s more than a bit terrified of – and a psycho dog that he swears is out to kill him. There’s also his brother. He allows himself a moment to take a breath, but only a moment – if he starts hesitating he’ll never go in. His hand hovers over the doorbell.

The door _rattles_ , actually rattles as the dog throws itself at the thick glass, an explosion of angry barks making Ori almost trip over himself as he jumps back. “Shit!” He clutches his bag to his chest, eyes wide and heart racing. He hates dogs, even friendly dogs that crowd too close and jump up with slobbery kisses. Smaug – the enormous red setter that Nori is unlucky enough to share a house with – is about as far from a friendly dog as Ori’s ever met.

“Smaug!” someone shouts angrily from inside the house. Thudding footsteps, then the dog’s barks get, if possible, louder at the sound of the key in the lock. “Smaug, shut up you blithering idiot – Hi!” It’s Bofur, the chattier of Nori’s two housemates, slightly dishevelled and wearing only a vest and boxers, bright green Snoopy boxers. He pushes Smaug back with his heel and opens the door wider.

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me… Nori’s friend?”

“Brother,” Ori corrects with a twitchy attempt at a smile. His attention is kept firmly on the dog, crouched in the narrow corridor and glaring balefully at Ori. “I – is Nori in?”

Bofur snorts. “This early? Yeah, he’s in.” He motions Ori to follow him down the hall and shuffles awkwardly towards the living room, pushing Smaug before him with his knees. “Idiot dog,” he mutters as the dog in question tries to push past him again. “Get in there and _stay_.” He manhandles Smaug into the front room which, if Ori remembers correctly, is Beorn’s bedroom and shuts the door firmly on his barks. The sounds of a deep voice filter through, murmuring something soothing that quiets Smaug to indignant whines.

Ori sidles past into the living room and hopes that Beorn stays in his room. Nori’s other housemate is at least a foot taller than anyone has any right to be – he’s not just tall, he’s _towering_ , looming threateningly over everyone he meets. Nori insists that he’s the nicest person to walk the planet, but all Ori can see is wild hair, hands that could wrap twice around his throat, and – of course – the ever present Smaug snarling at him when Beorn isn’t looking. After the first couple of times Ori visited Beorn took to staying in his room and out of the way. It makes Ori feel guilty, and yes, he probably is being hugely unfair in how he reacts to the guy – but all the same he can’t help but be a little bit grateful too.

“Nori!” Bofur yells up the stairs. “Get your lazy ass downstairs!”

“Clean it up yourself!” Nori’s answer is muffled and pained. Ori knows him well enough to recognise the signs of a stinking hangover, and allows himself a dejected sigh. The living room is littered with pizza boxes and beer bottles from the night before; chances are, Nori forgot he was coming and drank like he didn’t need to get up in the morning.

It’s not even morning, it’s half past twelve.

Bofur shrugs unapologetically at Ori. “Friday evening,” he says as though that explains everything (it probably does), then raises his voice again for Nori. “It’s the Sabbath, dipshit! And I was yelling because your brother’s here!” Sabbath – oh, of course. Bofur’s Jewish; Ori vaguely remembers Nori mentioning it before. He certainly looks the part, with his tanned skin and curly hair only partially tamed into a pair of thick braids.

There’s a panicked curse and a great deal of thumping from above the living room as Nori scrambles out of bed. Bofur nods in satisfaction at the sounds and picks his way around the mess to slump on the sofa, pushing himself back into the corner and propping his feet up on the cushions. He leaves Ori to hover awkwardly by the stairs, uncomfortably warm in his layers of knitwear – the radiators are on so high that the house is almost tropical, and he’s starting to sweat from the heat.

Nori clatters down the stairs in a chaotic mess, the spikes in his ginger hair pushed into a truly awful shape from being slept on and his eyes smudged with last night’s eyeliner – still the cheap stuff, despite Ori’s unsubtle hints about eye infections and harsh chemicals.

“Don’t give me that crap, Broadbeam,” he says to Bofur as he pulls on a crumpled tee shirt. “You only follow the Sabbath that closely when your mum’s here.”

Bofur waves him off with a languid arm. “My day of rest, Fitz. I’ll tidy tomorrow.”

 _Fitz?_ Ori mouths to himself, annoyed at the bastardisation of his surname. He’s a Fitznain, not a Fitz, he and Nori both – but, if Nori is fine with it then he supposes it’s not his place to say anything. It’s just another thing to add to his irritation with the brother who has three times now – _three!_ In a single week! – forgotten that Ori was visiting.

“Hey, kiddo,” Nori says, his smile turning into a yawn as he pulls Ori into a stiff one armed hug. “It’s good to see you. What took you so long, eh?”

“Screw you,” Ori mumbles, but relaxes into the hug anyway. He holds it for a moment, then pushes Nori away and wrinkles his nose. “You stink, Nori. And suck. You suck as well as stink.”

Bofur laughs from the sofa. “He knows you too well, Fitz!”

Nori makes a rude, two fingered gesture and drags Ori upstairs. “Yeah yeah, alcohol is bad and I’m a shitty brother. Sorry, Ori.”

It’s an apology Ori’s heard a thousand times before, and it means no more now than it did any of those times. He frowns unhappily but says nothing, silently chiding himself for his anger – Nori is who Nori is, Ori can’t expect him to change. If he did, he’d risk alienating as much as Dori did and, well, their family’s broken enough without Ori making it worse.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles instead, and replaces the frown with a smile. “And it’s good to see you too.”

“Yeah?” Nori asks, a thread of old uncertainty in his voice.

Ori smiles properly then, banishing any negative thoughts. “Yeah,” he says, and Nori grins rakishly.

“That’s what I thought, kiddo. Now, spare room’s full of crap so you’re in with me, ‘k? I’m going to grab a shower, you can stick your clothes in the wardrobe – I filched a couple of hangers from Beorn’s room for you a few days back, he shouldn’t have noticed them missing yet. Oh, and if you want a plug socket for anything then the white one over there is just the lamp, you can unplug that. You need anything else, just yell for me, yeah?”

“Got it,” Ori confirms, dumping his bag on the tangled bedclothes. “Now shower, before I choke on the smell!”

“Drama queen,” Nori laughs as he grabs his towel and makes for the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for no Kili in this one, but hopefully Ri family interactions are a good substitute! I've seen Dori portrayed negatively a lot, particularly in fics where Ori has a romance story. I wanted my Dori to have the familiar traits - fussy, over protective, etc - but hopefully he's not going to come across as bad as he can do sometimes. Let me know what you think of him?
> 
> A note on the names:
> 
> In canon, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur are probably Firebeards or Broadbeams, it's unclear which. I went for Broadbeam because I prefer it as a name, no other reason.
> 
> As for Dori, Nori and Ori Fitznain, the name translates to 'Son of Nain', but Fitz has strong implications of an illegitimate son. I've seen the headcanon before that the Ri family are a bastard offshoot of Durin's line, so this is my nod to it here. (Nain II was Thror's grandfather).

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr! Come find me at [aethelar.tumblr.com](http://aethelar.tumblr.com)


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